I sat there in the hard seat of my desk and waited patiently. I could not wait for my new teacher to stroll up to me; eyes full of amazement, and give me my paper. I had worked hard on it for nearly a month. My writing skills were top-notch, of course. Looking around the room at my classmates, it was easy to tell who had done the summer assignments, and those who were freeloading around in the back of their minds for a believable excuse as to why they had not produced anything after a month. My patience was wearing thin by this point. I wanted my paper and I wanted to see that ‘A’ proudly at the top of the page. Suddenly, she was right in front of me. I glanced up, smiling, trying to make a decent impression. However, her face didn’t show what I had expected. She flipped the paper over and slid it onto my desk, then went on with her rounds. Something inside me fluttered. I reluctantly flipped over my essay. I sat there for a while, staring at my paper. Never in my life had I seen so many red marks on a single piece of paper. My eyes slowly moved towards the top of the page, where an angry looking letter ‘D’ sat. As I stooped in my seat as I began to re-evaluate myself.
The first memories I have of reading are painful at best. Reading a simple sentence seemed impossible for me to do. Being the only child in class who couldn’t even read the bathroom door signs, I was singled out almost immediately. Teachers had no patience with a child that dared to slow down their teaching curriculum. As if I was purposely acting disobedient by being half illiterate. It didn’t take long for my mother to find out about the situation. Although she was furious with my teachers, she reassured me things would get better. The next day, she presented me with a gift. At the time, I looked at her “gift” as an insult. I was not aware that I needed Hooked on Phonics. Although I did put up an impressive show of shrugging off the gift, I eventually...